Threehundredfifty

You won’t return from the front.

I clean the laundry stone in autumn.

The bitter cold months are near;

My heart aches with long separation.

Can I shirk the toil of pounding your clothes?

No, they must go to the Great Wall.

Let me use all my woman’s strength.

May you, my lord, hear the sound o’er the vast.

TU FU